


Wolfpack

by tabaqui



Series: Wolfpack [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 20:07:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/665944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the Winchesters were a bit less...tame?  A bit more predatory.  An AU look at very different Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolfpack

**Author's Note:**

> I quote Rudyard Kipling's 'The Jungle Book', particularly 'Hunting Song of the Seeonee Pack'.  
> Dean sings a bit of the traditional ballad [The Fox Went out on a Chilly Night](http://www.songsforteaching.com/folk/thefox.htm).  
> Originally posted in February of 2007.  
> Outside POV.

_We be of one blood, ye and I..._  
  
Everybody called them the Wolfpack – every hunter, at least. Civilians likely called them trouble, and kept well away. Ellen privately thought they were more like a pack of feral dogs; sly and quarreling and vicious, without a drop of human kindness. But then she was a little biased, seeing as how her Bill had died hunting with them and they'd never once said sorry or showed a minute's remorse. Junkyard dogs, she thought, biting the hand that fed.  
  
But the Winchesters were the Wolfpack to everyone else and Ellen didn't share her private thoughts on them much, anyway. They pretty much refused to hunt with anyone – Bill had been one of the few exceptions, for all he'd only hunted with them three times. Mostly they kept to themselves, the boys shoulder to shoulder behind the father, the father looking out on the world with those wary, weary eyes. Dark hair shot with silver over his left ear where something had torn the scalp open long ago. The same something had clawed throat and shoulder and Ellen had seen the scars, once upon a time. Silvery on sun-touched skin, ugly and twisted.  
  
The oldest had a scar, too, right across his throat. His voice had gone from honey-smooth rumble to whiskey-rough rasp but it didn't seem to bother him. It made Ellen shiver to hear it. That voice and that _face_ , too pretty to be real – just one more reason to keep her Jo away whenever the Wolfpack was around.  
  
The youngest didn't have any scars that Ellen could see, just a fox-wicked smile and a temper quicker than his father's. Separately, they were deadly-dangerous; canny hunters who had never lost a fight or failed to kill their quarry. Together they were a force to be reckoned with and sometimes Ellen wondered just how far they'd go to extract their pound of flesh. Pretty far, she reckoned.  
  
They were sitting out in the main room tonight, usual corner table they took over every time. Worn out denim and scarred leather – washed-soft flannel and wool. Glint of teeth and knife-blade and gun barrel as they drank their whiskey and talked. Voices low and eyes flickering up at every move – every sound that got a little too loud. Still coming here even after Bill because Ellen had never told them no. Better to have such as them marginally on the side of good than not, and this way they could at least be haphazardly kept track of. The tables immediately around them were clear, with hunters – hunters! – finding reasons to gradually get up and move away. Nobody wanted those knife-sharp gazes at their backs.  
  
 _Wolfpack_ , Ellen thought, and walked over herself, bar rag in her hands to give them something to do. Sensibly spooked by three men who could kill pretty much anything on God's green earth and laugh about it afterward.  
  
"You gentlemen need another round?" Ellen asked. The boys glanced at each other – at their father – and John gave Ellen a little sideways grin. Kind of grin that might have made Ellen's knees weak if it had come from any other man.  
  
"Sure thing, sweetheart," he said, in that rumbling purr of a voice. "And how about some of those burgers we can smell?"  
  
"You got it. Want 'em fixed any special way?"  
  
"With everything," the oldest said. Dean, his name was. He gave Ellen a raking, head to toe glance and Ellen got the impression that he wasn't talking about the burgers.  
  
"Rare," the youngest added. Sam. He picked up his glass and drank the last mouthful out of it – licked a drop of amber liquid off his top lip, looking up at her through long eyelashes. "I mean – really bloody."  
  
"Sure, we can do that." Sam looked like he'd be happy to have it _raw_ , truth be told, and she gave a little stiff smile, turning to go. "Another round and three Roadhouse specials, coming up."  
  
" _Something's_ up," Dean's voice murmured, rasping growl that sent a shiver up Ellen's spine. Sam laughed, a low and dirty sound.  
  
"Boys," John said. Flat warning in his tone and the soft chuckles stopped. Ellen didn't walk any faster – _prey runs_ – but she let out a shaky little breath when she got through the kitchen door. Angry at herself for feeling intimidated. Angry all over again at John Winchester and his damn _mission_ , and at Bill for getting mixed up with them at all. Ellen shook her head – went to the back door and opened it, standing for a minute in the swirl of icy air that came in. Only October but it was cold outside, and it eased the angry flush that had heated her skin and made her hands shake. Years ago, all that was, and nothing to be done about it now. Ellen took a long breath of the ice-edged air and shut the door – turned to the grill and started making up the food. Years ago...  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The Winchesters happened into her life – their life – one afternoon deep into the dog days of summer. Bill over in the corner, banging around under the cooler and swearing, sweating in the heat. Every window open and fans going. Ellen was sitting at a table, going over some bills. Watching Jo color, the crayons sticky in her little hands. The porch creaked and the screen door banged open and Bill was on his feet back behind the bar. Gun in his hands, Ellen knew, even though it probably didn't show.  
  
A man stumbled in, carrying a little boy on his back. Another boy pushed in behind him, dragging a duffel that looked much too heavy for such a slight child. The man crouched just a little and let the smaller boy slide off his back and then they all three stood there, dark eyes roving over the room – flicking here and there and back to Bill. Jo just hummed, four and oblivious.  
  
"Can we help you?" Ellen asked, and the man's eyes took her in in one rapid glance – fixed on Bill, trickle of sweat down the side of his dusty face.  
  
"You can get that gun off me," the man said. Rumbling voice, little bit of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and Bill eased the gun up onto the bar.  
  
"Can't be too careful out here," Bill said, and the man nodded.  
  
"That's true. I need a phone, if you have one."  
  
"We do. Right there by the bar," Ellen said, pointing with her chin to the payphone up on the wall. Corkboard above it festooned with cryptic messages and mundane ones and a bunch of grubby business cards. The man said nothing – turned and gave a quick glance to the boys. They looked back up at him, unmoving – silent. Hair dark with sweat and sticking up in spikes – t-shirts stuck to their shoulders.  
  
"You boys want something cold to drink?" Ellen asked, getting up, and they _both_ flinched back. Little one couldn't be any older than Jo.  
  
"You leave my boys be," the man said, his voice holding a hint of a warning growl and Ellen eased back down, hands up.  
  
"It's hot out there, is all," she said. "They look thirsty."  
  
The man stood there for a long moment, as if weighing up things in his mind. As if a drink was too much to ask, or too big a debt. Then he nodded. "Some cold water would be good," he said, and Bill took a couple slow steps over to the beer cooler, lifting the lid.  
  
"Comin' up," Bill said. He fished out three pale-blue plastic bottles from the cooler and came around the bar, holding them out. The man took them – inspected them, running a grease-smudged thumbnail along the seals. Then he handed the boys each a bottle and cracked his own open – took a long drink.  
  
"I'm Bill Harvelle. This is Ellen and our daughter Jo."  
  
The man swallowed and wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and the older boy took the bottle out of the younger one's hand and opened it for him – handed it back. They both drank, the younger boy letting some run down over his chin. "Slow down, son, you'll be sick," the man said. Not even looking around, but the youngest boy stopped, wiping his chin and panting a little. The man looked at Bill – looked over at Ellen and seemed to come to some decision. "I'm John Winchester. My car busted a belt about ten miles down the road."  
  
"Then you wanna call McCandry's. He'll fix you right up." Ellen stood up and moved to the corkboard – tore a little strip of paper off the scissor-cut fringe at the bottom of the flyer. It had a phone number on it. She walked back over to John, holding it out. "Here – tell 'em you're calling from the Roadhouse and he'll give you a good deal."  
  
John took the scrap of paper – took another long drink of his water and then moved past her with a small nod, heading toward the phone. After a moment his quiet voice rumbled out, explaining where his car was and Bill went back behind the bar, taking up his wrench and getting back to work. Ellen stood looking down at the boys, a feeling of unease low in her belly. The boys were just so _quiet_. Quiet and wary and nearly motionless. Like little mice, caught out in the open.  
  
Both of them were tanned – lean – their hair cut fairly short, their clothes dusty but in good repair. The oldest one had a bruise on his wrist – the younger one had a scrape on his chin. They both watched her with wary eyes, drinking in little sips, bodies just touching. "You boys hungry?" she asked, and the eyes flickered past her to John – back to her. Nothing. Not a word. Ellen sighed and moved away – sat back down by Jo, who had finally noticed new people.  
  
"Who're those kids?" Jo asked, staring hard, and Ellen gave her a little smile.  
  
"They're John Winchester's boys. He's over there on the phone. Their car broke down."  
  
"Like daddy's did?"  
  
"Pretty much."  
  
"Can they play?" Jo asked, half out of her seat already and Ellen shot a look at John, who was scribbling something in a little notebook.  
  
"I don't think –"  
  
"Hey! Hey, wanna play?" Jo was off her chair and over by the boys in a flash, pigtails bouncing. The youngest boy faded a half-step behind his brother and the older one stood up a little straighter, head going down. Ellen would swear, to this day, that he bared his teeth.  
  
" _Dean_ ," John said, clear warning in his tone, and Dean blinked and looked up at John – looked back at Jo, his eyes curiously blank.  
  
"No, we don't wanna play," he said quietly. Tiny sneer in his voice and Ellen felt a little prickle of anger.  
  
"Jo – come help me in the kitchen. We're gonna make daddy some lunch."  
  
"Oh...okay." Jo retreated slowly, looking unhappy, and Ellen stood up – scooped Jo up and walked back toward the kitchen, sharing a look with Bill. John hung up the phone – shoved his notebook away into an inner pocket.  
  
"There a hotel around here?" he asked, and Ellen felt her heart sink.  
  
"Nah, nothing close," Bill said. "We got some rooms out back, though. Couple little cabins that'll do ya 'til your car's fixed." Bill was a hunter, but he had a soft spot for kids – for people down on their luck. Ellen wouldn't nay-say him in front of the Winchesters but... Later, there would be words. Ellen would always wonder if Bill would still be alive if she'd turned the Winchesters out that day.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"I see the Winchesters are about," Ash said, fading in from the shadows of the hallway, slightly glassy look in his eyes. God only knew what he got up to in his room. Ellen never asked, just told him he'd better not ever make her lose her liquor license.  
  
"That they are," Ellen said, scraping at the grill with a metal spatula. Rack full of dishes drying from the industrial washer and the night getting on. The crowd had thinned a little but the Wolfpack was still there, the boys playing pool and John sitting at the table, papers spread out and his battered journal open. Writing notes, collating information, something every hunter did. "Wish they'd get back on the road and out of here," Ellen muttered, pressing down with the spatula. Never mind her own nerves – the whole place was tense with them out there. Atmosphere subtly charged and shivering. Ellen was pretty damn sure the Winchesters knew _exactly_ how they affected other hunters – played it up for their own sick amusement whenever they came through.  
  
She finished scraping the grill and wiped her hands clean – pushed back out through the kitchen doors and slid back behind the bar. Ash followed her, settling himself on a stool and taking with a little nod the beer she uncapped and put in front of him.  
  
"They do liven up a place," Ash said, leaning on one elbow and watching Sam and Dean at the pool table. Ellen watched, too, absently polishing the already-gleaming bar.  
  
Dean was saying something to Sam, chalking the tip of the cue he held. He blew across the top of the cue and shoved the chalk into his jeans-pocket – stalked once around the table, studying the lay of the balls. After a moment he chose his shot – bent over and lined up the cue and sent the cue-ball rolling. A solid dropped into a pocket. Two more balls went in and then he missed and Sam laughed, his teeth flashing white in the dim light. It made Ellen shiver.  
  
He walked right up to Dean – close enough that Ellen was pretty sure their clothes if not their bodies were touching.  
  
"What the hell is he doing?" Ellen murmured. After a moment, it became perfectly clear. Sam was digging down into Dean's pocket – digging for the chalk. Taking his time about it, and Dean just...stood there. Legs slightly apart, cue braced on the floor. His other hand on Sam's hip, fingers flexing against the worn denim. Their faces inches apart and even from the bar Ellen could see the flush on their cheeks – could see how dark their eyes were, hooded and hot. "Jee...sus."  
  
"Not real shy, are they," Ash said, and Ellen shot him a wide-eyed look – glanced over at John, who was... Was staring right at her, little grin on his face. Ellen stared back for a moment and then shook her head, turning away.  
  
"That's...that's just..."  
  
"Sacred Band," Ash said, taking a drink, and Ellen blinked at him.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Plato, Plutarch...three hundred hand-picked soldiers who were doin' the nasty? They figured lovers would make better fighters – wanna stand up and be counted, not let their sweethearts down."  
  
Ellen just stared at Ash and then shook her head. "Oookay...that's –"  
  
Ash took another long gulp of his beer – wiped his mouth on his arm. "They were the ee-leet of the Greek ee-leet. Undefeated for forty years. Looks like the Winchester boys know their history."  
  
"They're _brothers_ ," Ellen hissed, leaning close. "Some total stranger is one thing but – _family_... That's wrong. It's just wrong."  
  
Ash grinned around the mouth of the bottle. "Wanna go tell 'em?" he said, and Ellen snorted softly.  
  
"I just wish they'd quit comin' around here. Find some other place to be." Ellen felt a moment's shame at the thought. Even _Gordon_ , whose fanatic's ways and trouble-making mouth made him more enemies than friends was welcome at the Roadhouse. And the Winchesters were doing _good_. Killing evil. But... Ellen scrubbed furiously at a cigarette-burn on the bar, scowling at it. She had the feeling that if any single person – or hell, _every_ single person – in the place in any way interfered with the Wolfpack... All three men would happily gun them down and then burn their bones.  
  
It was the sudden, complete _lack_ of sound that made Ellen look up fast, hand dropping automatically to the stock of the rifle that was snugged up under the bar. Sam and Dean were still standing at the pool table, hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Pool cues held loosely but precisely and Ellen knew for a fact you could kill someone with a cue, if you really wanted to. Crush a windpipe or take out an eye – rip open a belly with the shattered end. Sam and Dean looked ready to do any one of those, and the three hunters standing there in a loose semi-circle around them looked...  
  
Sorry they'd started anything. The whole bar was utterly silent, down to an unexpected pause in the usual jukebox queue. It was quiet enough for Ellen to hear the exchange that came next.  
  
"Now look," one hunter said, holding up his hand, beer bottle glinting in the light. "We don't wanna – wanna hurt you boys but you can't act like that in here."  
  
"Hear that, Sam?" Dean said, grinning. "They don't wanna _hurt_ us."  
  
"I hear that." Sam tilted his head just a little, eyes lively and a little wild behind the strands of his hair. "I think they're lying, though."  
  
"Funny...I do too," Dean said. His chin came down a little – his fingers flexed around the shaft of the cue and his voice dropped a whole register, growling snarl that made Ellen jerk in reaction halfway across the bar. "Which one of you motherfuckers is gonna be first?"  
  
"Oh, _shit_ ," Ash hissed, half-falling off his stool in his haste to stand up and Ellen jerked the rifle free of its scabbard. Brought it up and around, leveling it at the boys. Just needed a clear shot, clear shot – _fuck_. If she shot one of the Wolfpack they'd burn this place down around her ears.  
  
"Getting late, boys." John's rumbling voice cut across the tension like a hot knife. About half the hunters in the room turned at least their heads to look at him. Wisely, the three facing the boys _didn't_ , but Ellen could see their shoulders tense – their feet shuffle just a little on the floor. Threat from two sides, even though the casual onlooker would say it was the _Winchesters_ who were outnumbered. "Best be moving on."  
  
"Didn't get a chance to finish our game," Dean said, his grin sharp-edged and glinting.  
  
"Maybe some other time." John plucked his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on – slid his journal and the papers into the leather satchel that was lying on the table. He turned his head slowly, watching the crowd – smiled when his gaze finally rested on Ellen. "You plannin' on using that weapon, Ellen?"  
  
"Only if somebody starts something," Ellen said, but she let the barrel slew down and left, eyes on John.  
  
"Oh, I don't think anybody's gonna start anything." John moved toward the door and suddenly Sam and Dean did, too, making the hunters closest to them startle back. Clearing a path. Dean laid his cue on a bottle-littered table and sauntered onward. Sam tossed his to a staring hunter who caught it out of pure reflex. The three of them ended up together not five feet from the door and they were nearly there... Until somebody – looked like Doug Pheeny – stepped up and put his hand on John Winchester's shoulder, pulling at him.  
  
"Listen, Winchester –"  
  
That was all he got out. A moment later his voice ended in a pained squawk as the blade of a knife – a strangely curved, wickedly pointed knife – pressed into his throat, Sam Winchester right there behind it. Look of utter fury in his fox-canted eyes, fist doubling up in the man's worn sweatshirt. Voice like the hissing sigh of a blade being drawn.  
  
"Do not _ever_... touch my dad."  
  
"Get off'a him," somebody said and Ellen felt a wave of sick helplessness sweep over her as whoever it was – she couldn't quite see – cocked a gun. A heartbeat later John had some gods-awful huge pistol out and leveled and Dean had _two_ and other guns were coming out all over the room, safeties thumbing off _snick snick snick_ like some obscene chorus.  
  
"Jesus Christ, Jesus _Christ_ \- Ellen –" Ash looked as sick as Ellen felt and she lifted the rifle again, not even sure where she should point it.  
  
 _This can't be fucking happening, not in my fucking bar -_ "John! C'mon, now – let's all just –"  
  
"Don't you do it, son," somebody said, and Ellen saw the smear of crimson on Doug's throat where Sam was pressing that knife – fucking _sharp_ knife – just a little too hard into fragile flesh.  
  
"Doug – _Jesus_ , who is that on his other side?" Ellen muttered. Crab-walking behind the bar, trying to see, and it was _Gordon_ , of course it was Gordon. Kill first, never ask, never _shut up_ Gordon making Sam Winchester snarl like a rabid dog. Cornered wolf.  
  
"If you think I can't slit his throat and gut you like a landed fish before you can squeeze that trigger you are one stupid motherfucker," Sam said. Said it low and calm and even, like he wasn't threatening two men's lives.  
  
"Look around you, son – odds are against you." Sam's lip went up at the 'son' and Ellen wanted to duct tape Gordon's fool mouth shut.  
  
"Wouldn't bet on it," Dean rasped. Ellen resisted the urge to shoot the rifle into the air – get all of their attention on _her_. Every god damn one of 'em'd probably let loose if she did. The air all but crackled as she stepped out from behind the bar and walked slowly toward them, rifle held down but ready, fuck yes.  
  
She took a deep breath. "Listen up – _all_ of you. Killing is strictly fucking _off limits_ in my bar. Anybody dies in here, they're banned for life."  
  
The moment of _what the fuck?_ that came after that was broken by Dean. White teeth showing as he opened his mouth and _laughed_. Broken-hinge cackle, rasping and ruined by that scar but his eyes – bottle-green – sparkled with mirth.  
  
"Oh, you are one tough bitch, Ellen. C'mon, Sammy – we got better things to do."  
  
Sam flicked a glance at Dean – at John, who was grinning faintly, totally at his ease. Bastard hadn't turned a hair. He gave a short little nod and Sam's fury seemed to snap off like a light. He grinned, too – slid back a step, the knife coming off Doug's throat with a little whisper against his chin. Doug fell back, wheezing, and Ellen eased between him and the Winchesters.  
  
"Better give this place a miss for a while," Ellen said, and John's eyebrows went up for a moment, as if she was telling him to strip and dance the hootchy-kootchy.  
  
"You think?" John asked, and he looked straight at her, dark eyes pinning her breathless and shaking, all amusement gone. A wolf's steady stare, calculating and cold as hell and Ellen's fingers were cramping on the stock of the rifle, her own fear-sweat sharp in her nostrils. "Maybe we will," John said finally. He tipped his head a little toward Dean, who stepped backward and opened the door – held it with his foot while Sam slipped out. Then Dean slid out himself, guns still up and trained on any movement. John caught the door-edge and stood there a moment, surveying the room. He lifted his gun and blew across the end of the barrel as if blowing away smoke. Like some fucking cowboy or a cartoon character, and not _remotely_ funny. And then he grinned again and was gone, fading into the night as if he'd never been. A moment later the stuttering rumble of their vehicles – that old black Chevy and John's big 4 x 4 – reached through the walls and everyone seemed to let out a collective huff of relief.  
  
"Those boys....they really want seen to," Gordon said softly, right behind Ellen. She jerked around, her heart just now pounding fit to burst – her hands shaking so hard she was pretty sure she'd drop the rifle if she had to fire it. Gordon had a far-away look in his eyes and Ellen couldn't stifle the bark of incredulous laughter that burst out of her.  
  
"If you're fixin' to die that bad, Gordon, go on and see to 'em. I'll stand a round on the house in your honor."  
  
"They're not invincible," Gordon said, flash of heat in his gaze and Ellen shouldered past him, watching as all around her hunters eased guns back into holsters and pockets and started talking.  
  
"They're pretty damn fucking close, if you ask me." Ellen got around the end of the bar and clumsily slid the rifle back into its scabbard – grabbed a bottle off the back shelf and poured herself a double.  
  
"Rumors and backroom nonsense," Gordon snapped.  
  
"Bet your life on it?" Ellen asked. Gordon eyed her for a moment, disapproving and stiff, his nostrils flaring. Then he made a little pursing motion with his mouth and turned around – walked off, offense in every line of him. "God damn, god _damnit_ ," Ellen muttered, pouring herself another drink and capping the bottle with shaking fingers.  
  
Ash pushed through from the kitchen, his hair every which way, bringing in the cold. "They're gone. Heading west."  
  
"Good riddance." Ash climbed back up onto his stool and resumed drinking his beer and Ellen found a bar rag to shred and the night – slowly – went back to normal. But a little loop of memory – Sam and Dean all but kissing, Sam's knife with a smear of blood on the edge, John's last, lingering glance as he'd vanished out the door – played over and over in her head. No rest tonight, that was for sure.  
  
  
  
  
It was three months before Ellen saw the Wolfpack again, and she expected it to be longer. Halfway into January and she was hauling a box full of bottles outside, to stack by the corner so the brewery guy could pick them up. Moon up in the sky about a week past new and white as polished bone. A low line of clouds bulked along the northern horizon. Everything was navy and tar-black and soft, washed pewter and Ellen stood there for a moment, lifting her head into the breeze. Feeling it curl under her hair and past her collar – breathing it in so deeply it hurt her chest.  
  
Snow was in those clouds, she could all but taste it on her tongue and she shivered, wrapping her arms around herself and going back around the corner – back inside. That was when the hands grabbed her and spun her and she found herself pushed up tight against her own back wall, shoulders aching from the solid _thump_ and her heart in her mouth. Lungs not wanting to work quite right.  
  
"It's a chilly night, Ellen," someone said, and it took a long moment for her to figure out who in fuck it was. But she'd know that voice anywhere and she felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. Fear and anger twisting up through her like snakes.  
  
"D-Dean Winchester, you let me go."  
  
"In a minute," Dean said. He shifted her sideways until they were both standing in the pale slant of moonlight. He had a healing cut on his forehead – a split lip. He smiled at her, and it made Ellen's breath catch sharply in her chest.  
  
"There's two dozen men in there that'd shoot you where you stand if you hurt me," Ellen rasped out, and Dean laughed softly.  
  
"Oh, I'm sure they would, ma'am. I'm sure they would. Guess it's lucky for me I'm not here to hurt you." His voice was a growl but he wasn't angry – not even really touching her now, and Ellen edged half a step away from him, shivering hard. "No, I'm just here to pass along a message. Message from us for Gordon."  
  
"Why don't you just tell him yourself? He's inside –"  
  
"I know he is." Dean leaned against the wall next to her, solid mass of heat and leather-smell. Smoke, ash, gun oil – so much like Bill that for one moment Ellen's gut cramped in frustrated, vicious longing. "I know he is, and that's why _you're_ gonna talk to him. 'Cause fuck knows if I did, I'd spill his guts all over your floor. Don't want that, do we?"  
  
"No. We don't." Ellen wanted to step further away, to get completely away from Dean's heat – from his too-familiar scents and his glittering, amused gaze.  
  
"You tell Gordon he's lucky we've been busy. Next time he tries to step in on a hunt, we're going to take him down." Dean shook his head, his smile fading a little. "Hate to off a hunter – fuck knows we need all of 'em. But it won't stop us, Ellen. You make sure you tell him that. He's pushed too far and he only gets one warning."  
  
"Don't you think –" Ellen started and then lost the rest of her words in a startled hiss of indrawn breath as someone else eased up right behind her, much too close for comfort. " _Sam_ \- God –"  
  
"You tell her?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded.  
  
"I told her." He looked up at the sky – at the moon. Sharp lines of shadow and light over his face, transforming him for a moment into something not – quite – human. "Let's shag ass, little brother. Night's wastin'."  
  
"Good night, Ellen," Sam breathed, warm on her cheek. Scent of musk and smoke and bay, his eyes catching the weak moonlight and glinting like a coyote's. They walked away, boots nearly silent in the dust and tamped-down gravel of the yard and Ellen just leaned there, her heart thumping behind her ribs hard enough to hurt. Shaking and feeling a little sick, listening to them go.  
  
" _Oh, Fox went out on a chilly night...he prayed to the moon to give him light..._ " Dean sang softly, and Sam laughed.  
  
"Gonna get me a bone to chew?" There was another laugh – a scuffle of feet and Ellen pushed away from the wall – took a few fast steps, around the corner after them. They were grappling in the white-washed expanse of the parking lot, tiny puffs of dust coming up from the frozen ground. An easy dance of flesh and bone, teeth bared in playful snarls. It ended a moment later with Sam up against the rusting side of old Dan Peel's pickup, Dean leaning right into him.  
  
Catching his jaw in a hand with a silver ring on one finger, tilting it up and Dean's mouth on the skin underneath. Little whine of a noise from Sam, his hands sliding up under Dean's jacket while Dean's mouth slid up, as well – covered his brother's. Ellen wanted to shout at them to just stop it – to _get out, go home, get away_ , as if they were a couple of stray dogs. But she didn't say anything. Didn't move at all while the kiss went on and on and then abruptly stopped, Dean laughing and Sam tipping his head back. Mouth open on a breathy little howl that made Dean cuff the side of Sam's head.  
  
"You freak."  
  
"Takes one to know one." Sam pushed off the truck, deliberately knocking into Dean, who pushed back. "Let's run."  
  
"Think you can beat me?" Dean asked, but he was already moving and then Sam was and they vanished into the darkness in a matter of moments, silent. Ellen stood looking after them, her nose and her ears throbbing with the cold until she heard, ever so faintly, the rumble of a car engine going rapidly away. Then she turned around and went inside, looking for Gordon.  
  
  
  
  
She heard, months later, that whatever demon had started John Winchester on his mission had been killed. Utterly destroyed. They only took out half of Kansas doing it and the miles-wide, smoking crater that was left behind was in the news for weeks. John never made it out – that news got around fairly fast, as well. The boys weren't on the radar at all after that – not a whisper of their presence anywhere and rumors started that they'd died, too. Or been dragged down to hell with the demon they'd vanquished. Ellen, herself, didn't believe it. Speculation ran rampant, and then eased off and finally died outright, starved for information. Things went...back to normal, mostly.  
  
Ellen thought about them sometimes. Thought about what John had done to get his revenge – what he'd turned his sons into in the process. What they'd willingly become. She wondered if they'd ever dreamed of something else. Some other life.  
  
But then her mind would turn, inevitably, back to them in her yard under the moonlight. Scuffling around like puppies, nipping and snarling and _laughing_ , so wrapped up in each other they hadn't bothered to notice her. So sure of their own immortality, and so...happy. Uncomplicated affection and joy that didn't need the world or her approval, just...each other. Not a bad way to be, she figured. Not so bad, after all.  
  
  
  
  
 _As the dawn was breaking the Wolf-pack yelled  
Once, twice, and again!  
Feet in the jungle that leave no mark!  
Eyes that can see in the dark – the dark!  
Tongue – give tongue to it! Hark! O Hark!  
Once, twice, and again!_  
  
  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wolfpack 'Verse 1-3 [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3911239) by [podfic_lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/podfic_lover/pseuds/podfic_lover)




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